


just roll with it

by forkidcest



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bathing/Washing, Begging, Explicit Sexual Content, Humiliation, Implied (fantasy/unrequited) Bro/Dave, M/M, Marathon Sex, Overstimulation, Selfcest, Sensory Deprivation, Somnophilia, Spanking, Spitroasting, Time Travel, Undernegotiated Kink, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-01-29 05:50:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21405223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forkidcest/pseuds/forkidcest
Summary: Rose has everything under control. All he needs to do is whatever she tells him.
Relationships: Dave Strider/Dave Strider, Rose Lalonde/Dave Strider
Comments: 9
Kudos: 55
Collections: Stridercest Server Jams





	just roll with it

**Author's Note:**

> A note on ships: All of the sex in this fic is Dave/Dave(/Dave/Dave…), orchestrated and observed by Rose. The Bro/Dave is unrequited attraction/fantasy, significant to the scene but not described in detail.
> 
> This fic is tagged underage because the characters are implied to be in their teens, but their actual ages are not specified.

Dave's tired. He's been grinding for grist and searching the planet for his Bro, not exactly in that order, and it's been weeks since he's seen anyone but himself, himself, himself, hordes of game-spawned underlings and his hell damned sanity-murdering sprite, and he's _tired_.

It's a relief to fall through the gate and stumble over the threshold of Rose's weird-ass blocky house.

Even if her planet is so bright it makes him squint behind his shades.

She stands to meet him as he enters, knitting already neatly wound up and set to one side as if—well, of course she knew he was coming, that's kind of her thing—and something seems—off—as she approaches, but it's not until they're practically nose to nose that he realizes what it is, at the same moment that she says, "You're taller," severely, as if it's something he's done wrong.

And, well. It kind of is.

"Sorry," he says, sheepish, rocking on the balls of his feet. He goes to shove his hands in his pockets and stops, echo of her in his head crisply chastising him for ruining the line of his suit, feels himself blush. "I was—I got close, I thought, I kept thinking I was catching up to him, I— Sorry."

She doesn't point out that it's been nearly a week for her, doesn't ask how long it's been for him. He wonders if she already knows, or if she doesn't want to. If it even matters.

She shakes her head as she takes his hand, an elegantly calculated gesture (like all of her gestures) somehow conveying both disappointment and forgiveness, indulgent, almost, of his failures, and he has to focus on his feet to keep from tripping over them as she leads him up the stairs.

She stops in the hall outside her bedroom, holds him at arm's length and looks him up and down, appraising. Maybe admiring, a little bit.

It is a very nice suit.

He can see a slice of her room over her shoulder, through the open door. Her bed is rumpled, a mussed tuft of blond hair barely visible in the mess of blankets. He tries not to look.

The thing is.... the thing is. Time travel is cool and all, but having to keep track of the loops, always paying attention to make sure he notices and remembers and does whatever he has to do to stay in the stream of his own personal vastly overextended timeline, careful to never miss a beat or a blink because he's seen enough of his own corpse to last several consecutive lifetimes—for a hella sweet superpower, it kind of sucks. A lot.

It's exhausting and stressful and so often he just wants to stop.

But actually stopping is hard, even though he knows—he _knows_—that he doesn't have to worry about that, here.

Apparently he's going to come back to some point prior to this one and pass out in Rose's bed, and that's. That's a thing he doesn't have to think about, doesn't have to plan for, because Rose is handling the choreography, now, Rose can See it all play out better than he ever could, Rose has everything under control. All he has to do is whatever she tells him.

He breathes out, lets his shoulders slump a little, and looks back at Rose's face. She's watching him with a knowing little smirk, like she's followed every split second turn of his little internal crisis, and he can't even be mad, he's too relieved.

She takes him by the lapels and turns him around, backs him through the open door. Her bed is behind him, a blurry reflection in her computer screen, easy to ignore now that she's pushing his jacket off his shoulders, draping it over the back of her desk chair, sitting down, tugging at his tie until he goes to his knees in front of her.

"That's better," she says, under her breath, but she sounds so satisfied that he snorts a laugh, because really, he has what, maybe a quarter inch on her, now?

And then her slim fingers are unknotting his tie, running consideringly over the silky fabric, and he goes quiet, swallows hard as she pulls the length of it between her hands, holds it in front of his eyes.

"Hm," Rose hums to herself, "…no, too narrow." She loops the tie over the arm of her chair, reaches into a pile of fabric on her desk and pulls out a silk scarf in deep purple—fine thin fabric, but opaque enough when she folds it over a few times.

She holds out a hand, and Dave takes off his shades and passes them over without asking any questions. Leans forward, hands braced on the floor by his knees, so she doesn't have to reach to tie the ends of the folded scarf at the back of his head.

The fabric is soft against his eyelids, the darkness complete.

Rose's hand plays in his hair for a moment, then withdraws.

The chair squeaks a bit as she gets up and steps around him, humming quietly (absent-mindedly, he would think, if he wasn't so sure of the deliberateness in everything she does) as she rummages through—something—over by her bureau, crosses the room to the bookcase, stepping delicately around him, moves something, puts something down on the desk

He's not doing so well at the whole relaxing patiently thing, right now.

Rose's hand brushes his shoulder, and his whole being focuses immediately on that light touch, and then the desk chair squeaks again as she sits down. A rustle of turning pages, the scratch of a pen. His body, taut with anticipation of another touch at first, relaxes by increments when it doesn't come.

He's still so tired, and in the dark behind the blindfold it becomes easier to let the seconds tick by without his attention, let his awareness of them fade into the background, faint behind the steady scritch of Rose's writing.

He's almost at the point of dozing off when the pen clatters on the desk and she speaks, not loudly, but clear and carrying as a bell:

"Get up, Dave."

He scrambles to his feet, swaying slightly from the head rush, only vaguely registering the rustle and thump behind him.

"Shoes off," she says, and he bends to untie them, starts and burns when she rests a cool hand on the back of his neck for a brief moment, straightens and kicks them off when she withdraws again.

He's anticipating further instructions—shirt, belt, pants—but instead there's another fleeting touch to his shoulder and then a hand on his jaw, warmer and sword-callused, turning his face into a kiss.

He gasps and opens to it, kissing back eagerly, and starts to turn, hands rising automatically, reaching for a moment before a touch on his wrist halts him, reminds him to stop and wait for whatever he'll be given. The hand slips from his jaw to his shoulder, runs down his arm. He shivers.

The kiss is insistent, hungry, deep. He's dizzy and reeling by the time his mouth is released, achingly hard, his panting embarrassingly loud and ragged in the stillness of the room.

Arms come around him from behind, barely-trembling fingers at his collar, unbuttoning his shirt. A warm body presses against his back, warm breath on the shell of his ear, a teasing hint of teeth. He can't steady his breathing.

"Very good, Dave," Rose says, warm and approving, and he shudders. He knows she's not talking to him, but.

She will be.

The hands finish unbuttoning his shirt, unbuckle his belt. One presses flat on his abdomen, restraining his impulse to buck forward as the other palms his dick through his pants. It's shaking, just a little, and the breath at his ear is pretty unsteady too, now.

He's suddenly extremely conscious of another dick (the same dick) grinding not very subtly against his ass.

His face is hot. He can't stop thinking about Rose watching this, eyes intent on him while he squirms. Enjoying it. Amused, maybe, by the sounds he can't help making.

The hands move, unfasten his pants, pull his dick out. He gets one firm stroke, teeth closing simultaneously on his trapezius, and he cries out, hot all over now, torn between chasing the teasing hand and pushing back desperately into the body behind him.

"Please," he begs, and god, is that really his voice? "Fuck, oh fuck, please, Rose—”

His voice cracks on her name.

He doesn't hear her move, but suddenly her hands are there, cradling his hot face, stroking his hair.

Other hands push his pants and underwear down his thighs—muted clink of his belt buckle as it all falls to the floor—and draw his open shirt off his shoulders, down his arms, bringing his wrists together behind his back. That familiar dick presses into his palms for a moment, pulls back before he can do more than squeeze it awkwardly, the angle so weird, all wrong.

He's stark fucking naked in front of Rose Lalonde and she's brushing his sweaty hair behind his ear in a way that feels almost—look, Dave doesn't really have much of a reference point for 'maternal,' but—god. He's really so fucked up.

Something touches his chest—not fingers, a soft slither of fabric. Rose's hand pats his shoulder and leaves it draped there, a narrow silky length caressing his heaving chest, soft edge of it teasing his nipple, the other end hanging down his back, tickling the top of his ass—his tie, he realizes, as warm hands bend his arms behind him, coax him to grip his own forearms, callus on his thumb rubbing the soft skin of his inner elbow. The pressure on his shoulders makes him bend forward, just a little, and the tie brushes his nipple again, and he bows his head and gasps and keens, a thin whining sound shuddering out of him.

He's shaking as the end of the tie slithers back over his shoulder, as those hands wind it around his arms, loop after loop, silky smooth and unyielding, binding him fast.

Dave ties a solid square knot, leaving about six inches of his tie dangling. He's more careful with it than he really needs to be. The slippery fabric under his fingers is easier to focus on than the shivering body in front of him.

He remembers this.

He tugs on the end of the tie, just a little, testing the knot, and hears himself whine, remembering the strain on his shoulders, the heat in his face, the desperate arousal and the humiliation of showing so much in front of Rose—

Now there's fresh embarrassment layered over the echoes of memory, seeing himself like that, and looking up to see Rose looking perfectly composed, a pleased little smile on her lips as he palms his own dick, not quite as firmly as he remembers wanting, and feels himself shudder under his hands.

He doesn't want to meet her eyes—feels naked, which he is, of course, but being without the shades still sitting on her desk makes it so much worse—but he doesn't know what to do next, can't sort his actions out of the confusing, overwhelming flood of his memories, so he makes himself look up, and waits for instructions.

Rose is, of course, prepared.

As he reaches for the paper in her hand, he feels a skip in Time and a hand on his other shoulder. It strokes down his arm to his wrist and takes over handjob duties while another reaches past him to grab his past self's hip, crushing him between them. It takes him two tries to grab the note.

Rose's instructions are clear, detailed, and simultaneously maddeningly opaque.

The first loop is quick. Even knowing—remembering—that his past self won't last long, he's surprised by the sudden mouthful of jizz he gets just as he settles into the rhythm of sucking with intention.

(He's never going to develop real skills at this rate.)

And then he's going back, just a few minutes into the past, to grab and grind on himself while he tries to concentrate on reading that curling purple ink, and push himself down, and watch himself suck his own dick while he prods at his own asshole with fingers covered in spit and spunk.

(He doesn't really want to see his lips stretched around his hard cock, the way his cheeks bulge and how he struggles to swallow around it without gagging, the hectic flush of his face as he pulls away with a streak of white dripping from the corner of his mouth, but Rose was specific on that point, so he hooks his chin over his own shoulder and watches.)

It's the next bit that gets confusing. He has some idea what at least some of the neat list of captchalog codes must be for, but. Well, it's hardly surprising that his memory's muddled, considering how much of a moaning mess his past self is right now, still shuddering from that sudden orgasm, trembling all over and shoving back on the fingers in his ass, and god, fuck, he's so tight, he jabs his fingers hard into his prostate and remembers being fucked hard and fast and his future self better show up with the lube soon because he can't wait, he needs to get his dick in there, he needs—

He doesn't hear himself enter, just sees a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, looks up from where his fingers are screwing into that tight hole and there he is, barefoot in tight black jeans, face blank behind his shades, and he barely catches the lube when he tosses it over, fumbles one-handed and grabs it too tightly and a gob of it squeezes out and spatters on Dave's back, slides down to the crack of his ass and he shivers and clenches and they both moan in stereo. His future self raises an eyebrow at him, like _really? _and fuck, it makes him angry that he can stand there looking so cool, casually pulling on a pair of fingerless gloves, _fuck_, almost as much as it turns him on.

Rose is wearing this tiny smug smile, and his future self keeps his perfect poker face, cool as anything, and they're both just watching as he opens himself up, none too gently, and the Dave in front of him whimpers and squirms and pushes back against the fingers in his ass, trying to get them deeper. He can feel the heat of his blush in his cheeks. He burns with a 2x combo of vicarious and remembered shame, and it does less than nothing to diminish his arousal.

Dave’s thighs are trembling, his shoulders aching. His still-hard dick feels cold, all wet with saliva and bobbing in the air in front of him, twitching weakly in response to the fingers driving relentlessly against his prostate, three of them now, slippery with lube—it feels like it's everywhere back there, a sloppy slick mess, and he feels the hot blunt head of his cock prodding at his ass cheek and knows it's going to happen, he's about to get fucked, and god, he wants it so bad, and he knows it's himself behind him but that's not who he's thinking about—and then Rose says "Tell him, Dave," like she's reading his fucking mind or something.

"Please," he gasps, and the fingers slide out, he feels the smooth slick head nudge at his hole, teasing, and there's a ragged whisper in his ear, "You want this, Dave? You want this dick pounding your tight ass?" and he moans desperately, "Yes, fuck, please, fuck me—" and clamps his lips down on the plosive that wants to escape. There's a warm puff of air on his other side, other lips brushing his ear, breathing words that set him on fire with shame. "Doesn't matter if you don't say it," he whispers, "everyone already knows," and he cries out wordlessly as that cock finally drives deep inside him.

A hand grips his hair, forces him to raise his bowed head, then pulls him forward and down, making him bend at an awkward angle. With his arms folded and bound behind him it's hard to balance, he has to rely on the hand in his hair and the ones gripping his hips for leverage as his—as the guy behind him fucks in again and again, hard and fast. Another hand cups his cheek and he feels the edges of the leather against his skin, stitches rough on his tongue as a thumb presses between his lips, and he knows then that it's true, they all know, Rose knows that he wants his big brother to fuck him, and he whines around the thumb in his mouth, overcome by a cresting wave of humiliation.

The gloved hands pull away for a moment, leave him off-balance and shaking with the driving rhythm of the other guy's cock in his ass, and then a pair of headphones settle over his ears, and everything goes quiet.

The noise-cancelling headphones are really a stroke of genius. Dave gets louder when he can't hear the embarrassing noises he's making, the part of him that can't stop listening for spoilers of his immediate future can finally turn the fuck off, and the him who's living his immediate future gets to be surprised by the sounds he's eliciting and his own uncensored babbling because he doesn't remember any of it. The increased sensory deprivation sinks him deeper in the experience and ratchets up the intensity of every touch, and he may not be able to hear himself but he knows he's making noise, feels it vibrating in his throat and knows it must be loud and it's so humiliating, so when his further future self finally lets him at his dick he basically gags himself on it in his eagerness to be shut up.

Future Dave doesn't make it easy for him, either, grips his hair and pulls him down and lets him mouth sloppily at the hard bulge of his cock through his jeans for what feels like far too long, cups his cheek again with that gloved hand and listens to the broken whining sounds he's making, which he didn’t fully appreciate on his first go round because he was too busy falling the fuck apart—he looks up from Dave's eager mouth and sees his eyes closed in ecstasy (and a healthy dose of shame) and his mouth hanging open, panting as he slams into the body between them—yeah, he's not gonna last much longer, so he tugs Dave off by his hair and unfastens his jeans with his other hand, gets his cock out and taps it against those swollen lips and they open right up, let him feed it into that hot mouth and shove deep, fuck patience, this pathetic wreck in front of him is getting his face fucked and he'll fucking like it.

He does fucking like it.

He keeps up his desperate moaning, muffled now by the cock in his mouth, and damn does it feel nice, the vibration and the flutter of his tongue, the sloppy sucking when he pulls out a bit and the tightness of his throat when he thrusts back in. He swallows convulsively around the length of it sometimes, and that feels great too.

The guy across from him is gasping out these little high-pitched cries and it's a vivid reminder of how good it felt to fuck that tight ass, and the fact that he's going to get to do it again, and he thrusts in again, deep as he can get, pushes his cock into his throat and holds his head to keep it there, feels him choke and spasm, and watches the other guy's eyes roll back in his head as he slams in hard and comes.

He pulls out to let himself gulp for air, watches himself tap himself on the shoulder as he pulls out too with a full-body shiver. He slips the head of his dick back into his mouth while he's still gasping, watches himself nudge himself to the side and line his cock up, and he can't see it from this angle but he remembers being the Dave who's just been pushed aside, still shuddering with aftershocks, and watching himself set his cock against that sloppy hole. He remembers noticing the streak of jizz trailing down his thigh, and the way more of it slipped out around his cock when he stuck it in. The image replayed in his mind as he made his way to the alchemiter, as he dialed in the list and pulled on his jeans and skipped into the past to rejoin the party.

He only sort of remembers being the guy in the middle. It's all a blur, the warm weight of the cock in his mouth, the taste of precome, the dizzy lightheadedness as he gasped for air, the teasing slippery touch to his asshole making him cant his hips back, wordlessly begging for more....

He's pretty sure he screamed when they both slammed in at once, filled his throat and his ass in perfect synchronicity, and he nods at himself and they do it, shove in hard and fast, as deep as they can go, and he was right, he can feel the vibration of it all through his cock, and it's amazing.

He's getting close but he doesn't want to come yet so he eases off, stops thrusting and just enjoys the way past Dave keeps messily licking and sucking as their future self keeps fucking him, hard and steady, gloved hands tight on his hips.

He watches himself raise one of those hands and bring it down hard, and the Dave between them jolts and moans at the sharp smack to his ass, starts sucking harder, whining around the cock in his mouth and shoving his hips back to meet the one slamming into his sloppy hole. "Oh, yeah," the other Dave groans, spanks him again as he thrusts in, looks up from his dick sliding in and out to tell himself, with a confidential little smirk, "he tightens up real nice when you hit him," punctuating it with a hard slap low on his ass cheek where it meets his thigh.

And oh, fuck, he can't hold off much longer, not with the desperate way past Dave is slurping at his dick, saliva dripping from his swollen lips, tears leaking from under the soaked blindfold, choked moans vibrating through his throbbing cock with every impact of the other guy's hand, hips working like he's trying to fuck the air, so far gone he doesn't even remember this.

Fuck, fuck, he's going to come, he fists a hand in his hair—the way he whines at that, jesus christ, it's so fucking hot and embarrassing as fuck—and pulls him off as his orgasm hits, so the first spurt of jizz hits the back of his throat and the next spatters his face.

God, he's such a fucking mess.

And loud, now that he hasn't got anything in his mouth. His begging isn't anything approaching coherent, but its meaning is unmistakeable. More, please, harder, more—

"Kiss him," Rose says. Her voice is as clear and calm as ever but it sounds different, somehow, subtly—throatier, maybe? She meets his gaze coolly when he looks over to her (and it's still unsettling as hell how easily she does that when he's wearing his shades) but she's leaning forward in her chair, a little bit, and she seems a little tense, thighs pressed together, fingers knotted in her lap, fuck yes. He tries to be chill about it, tames the triumphant grin that wants to take over his face down to a little quirk of his lips. His future self mirrors it back at him and yeah. He looks pretty damn good.

His past self is still bent over between them so he gets a hand on his shoulder, encourages him into a more upright position, and he's not really sure which one he should be aiming for as he moves in—future Dave would be a lot better at kissing right now, past Dave is completely out of his head and his face is a mess of jizz and spit and tears, but shutting him up is a thing he hasn't stopped wanting to do, so—and then he steps in something wet and warm and slimy, _what the fuck_, there goes his attempt at being smooth, it was nice while it lasted. This is a supremely unsexy way of discovering that he can apparently come without anything touching his dick.

Future Dave smirks at him. Fuck that guy, sloppy makeouts it is.

Past Dave's breath hitches in the middle of a moan when he takes his face in his hand, palm pressed to the curve of his wet cheek, thumb wiping away the tears seeping from under the blindfold. The black leather of the glove contrasts with his skin, makes him look pale and soft and vulnerable. He'd almost forgotten he was wearing them.

Dave turns his face into the touch, presses parted lips against the smooth leather covering the heel of his hand. His mouth is hot.

It's ridiculous that that should make his knees feel weak, when he literally just had that mouth on his dick, when the evidence is still decorating the other side of his face in sticky strings from chin to forehead.

He wipes it off with smooth gentle swipes of his index finger, lets himself suck it off after. Tastes it in his mouth when he kisses himself, slow and deep, hungry for the way he squirms and whimpers and gasps.

He kisses him until his chest is heaving, until he can't do anything but shiver and pant, breathless, swaying unsteadily on the balls of his feet as he's fucked, the angle different now that he's more or less upright, pinned between the two of him.

Then he presses in closer, chest to chest with his past self, stretches to kiss the other Dave over his shoulder.

He strokes up and down Past Dave's flank with his free hand, traces the shapes of his ribs, feels the pulse in his throat, thumbs over the hard peak of a nipple, maps the muscles of his abdomen. Wraps his fingers around the familiar blood-warm solidity of his erection and feels his desperate sob, hot and damp against his neck.

He takes it slow, teases himself with too-light touches interspersed with firm strokes that make him buck and shudder, pauses every time he thinks he might be getting close.

It's so hot, the three of them (the three of him) pressed together in a sweaty tangle. His future self, moaning into his mouth as he grinds forward, lacking leverage to thrust properly but unwilling to break the open-mouthed kiss; his past self, mouthing wetly at his collarbone, muffling his whining in the salt of his own skin as he writhes between the hand wrapped around him and the hard cock inside him.

And Rose. Rose, watching.

He sneaks glances at her from behind his shades as he kisses himself, imagining what they must look like to her—mirror images, making out, their hands all over the bound and blindfolded wreck whimpering and moaning between them...

Rose's poker face puts his to shame, but he knows she's watching avidly, knows she's into this, even if it doesn't show. After all, she arranged the whole scene, set it up to meet her exacting aesthetic standards, and gave herself a front row seat to the Dave-on-Dave-on-Dave sex marathon.

The Dave on the Dave he's jerking off bites at his lower lip, not too hard, just enough to sting in the way that feels good, and gasps into his mouth when he returns the favor.

His kissing is getting sloppier, the quick rhythm of his breathing going erratic. He spanks the one he's fucking again, hard and sudden, making him jolt and shudder, and then he pulls back from the kiss, plants his feet and grabs himself by the hips and fucks himself with short sharp thrusts that make him scream breathlessly into the curve of his shoulder.

The Dave in the middle is actually rising onto his toes, just slightly, with every driving thrust of the cock in his ass, and as the gloved hand stroking his dick speeds up the garbled sounds pouring out of him get louder, seem like they might be trying to resolve into words. As those words seem likely to be variations on the theme of "fuck me Bro," the Dave providing the handjob stops them by clenching a fist in his hair and hauling him into an even messier kiss.

Their teeth click against each other, spit smearing between their open mouths, and he jerks himself faster, bites his lip, pulls his hair, and then he's shaking apart while their future self fucks him through it, gasping, shoves deep inside him and comes too.

The bound Dave slumps between his future selves, limp and utterly fucked out. It takes both of them to get him into Rose's bed—it doesn't help that the Dave who just fucked him is also weak and stumbling with post-orgasmic lassitude.

He's not too out of it to smirk at his past self and mouth "have fun" before absconding to the master bathroom and a long, luxurious shower, though.

Dave finds that both intriguing and disconcerting. He tries not to wonder about it. After all, he’ll find out soon enough.

Rose comes over and sits at the head of the bed as he gets himself settled facedown in a heap of pillows and unwinds the tie from around his forearms. She gently lifts away the headphones and unties the tearstained scarf, strokes his sweaty hair and whispers to him, gentle words he can't quite hear or remember.

He straightens and stretches his arms one at a time, carefully, rubs the red marks left by the tie, massages from his fingertips to his shoulders, making himself groan weakly into the pillows.

Focusing on the task at hand helps him avoid looking directly at Rose, who is now wearing a sweetly indulgent smile that kind of makes him want to die.

It feels like spying to watch the way she's looking at him, even though it's him she's looking at. He was barely aware of anything when he was the one in the bed, exhausted and floating in the sensations of warmth and softness, gentle fingers in his hair, firm hands pressing out the knots in his back.

Lips on his shoulder blades. He flushes hot at the memory, darts his eyes at Rose—she's not even looking at him, wholly focused on the other Dave's dreamy smile, god, that's so embarrassing—and bends to press those painfully tender kisses to his back, because he has to.

A hand smacks his ass and he starts at the impact—it stings more than he would have expected, til he looks down at himself in front of him and notes the reddened skin of his ass, remembers that ten or so hours ago he was the one getting spanked and fucked and that really doesn't help with the renewed arousal he's trying so hard to ignore. He sits up and scowls at himself.

Future Dave smirks at him. He's got his wet hair slicked back and Dave didn't know he could look like that much of a smug douchebag, wow, he's going to have to practice in the mirror or something. What a way to spend the afterglow.

"Thank you, Dave," Rose says, and it's only then that he realizes he's got a steaming bowl in his other hand and has a towel draped over his arm like some kind of fucking butler, and the smug asshole winks at him and oh, fuck, he's going to be giving himself a goddamn sponge bath, isn't he?

He totally is. He doesn't remember getting a sponge bath, thank everything good and holy, but he also doesn't remember taking a shower before whirling back in time and stumbling over to Rose's pristine bed, and he didn't wake up tacky with dried sweat and other more disgusting things, so it doesn't take a fucking genius to figure out the math on that one. Fuck.

He sets the bowl down on the nightstand, drops the towel on the bed (what kind of shitty butler, honestly), and leaves. Dave is relieved. Doing this is going to be embarrassing enough; he's glad he won't have to watch it later.

His past self is limp, maybe asleep, maybe just totally out of it—he's not quite unresponsive, is the thing, because he turns his head at the light touch of Rose's fingers on his jaw. She dips a cloth in the bowl, wrings it out, and gently wipes his face clean of tears and sweat and spit and come, humming something soft and soothing, and Dave has to look away.

He is aware of the irony of finding this scene of Rose taking care of him post-fuckfest too intimate to watch. He averts his eyes anyway, and then he's staring at his own ass, which isn't really that much better on the scale of humiliating sights.

One cheek is noticeably redder than the other. He didn't really notice while it was going on—either time—but it seems he's not much for spanking with his non-dominant hand.

He fumbles for a washcloth, needing something to do with his hands, some semblance of plausible deniability to cover how badly he wants to touch himself, feel the heat of the blood in his skin, the shift of the long muscles in his back.

He smooths the cloth down the lengths of his arms, wipes the sweat from the nape of his neck and continues down his back, retracing the paths his hands have already followed, and it's. It's fine.

And then he reaches the small of his back. That's where he stopped his massage, before, but it's not as though he can leave off cleaning himself up when he hasn't even got to the worst of the mess yet.

Just thinking of it makes his face flame.

He shifts back on the bed, trails his fingers down the back of his thigh, resists the powerful urge to glance up at Rose as he gets a hand on the inside of his knee and gently encourages his legs apart. Yeah, he's wearing his shades, but. She'd know. She'd know, and look at him, and he would die of embarrassment on the spot.

The Dave in the bed yields easily to the light pressure of the hand on his knee, spreads his thighs with a soft, totally unselfconscious sigh of pleasure. Dave is, for a moment, deeply and stupidly envious.

He is also horribly, disgustingly turned on.

The insides of his thighs are smeared with come and lube and the damp cloth in his hand is getting cool, now, but there's no fucking way he's going to get up to dip it in the bowl again and reveal his raging boner, so it's going to have to be good enough.

He wipes the mess off his thighs first, then folds the cloth over and uses the other side to clean the rest of it, his taint and balls and between his cheeks, the sticky wreck of his asshole. He's gentle and meticulous, about as far from his usual perfunctory scrubbing in the shower as it's possible to get, and while the vantage point doesn't get any less weird, focusing on doing a good job goes some way toward helping him stop thinking about it.

When he's as clean as he's going to get, he drops the cloth on the floor and, well, he didn't really finish that massage earlier, did he, since he didn't get to his legs at all, so he might as well do that.

He really owes it to his current self to make sure the muscles in his thighs are all in good working order, which they are, so he's definitely doing the right thing. The fact that this means he gets to keep touching himself and listening to the sleepy happy sounds he keeps breathing out is incidental.

It's meditative, almost. If he ignores the slow grind of his hard dick against the bedcovers, which he definitely does.

He’s trying not to look at his ass too much, but it’s right there, directly in front of him, and he catches himself staring, can’t stop thinking about how good it felt to fuck himself, how hot and tight, and he lost it real fast that first time but when he goes back he’s going to last longer, he’s gonna take his time, really enjoy it. He’s gonna find out how it feels to take his own sloppy seconds, he’s gonna smack this ass and feel it tighten up around his dick and_ oh fuck he’s close_—

“Yeah, you’re gonna need to take the edge off before you go back,” Dave says behind him, and of course he’s back, watching, of course he knows exactly what’s going through Dave’s head. And he’s right, of course; with how turned on he is right now there’s no way he could last as long as he did, as he will, no way he could keep his cool—

“Fortunately, totally out of it Dave here is in the perfect position to assist,” Dave says.

What.

“It’s okay, Dave,” Rose says, and she smiles at him, the sharp edge of her sweetness almost invisible. “Go ahead. Enjoy yourself.”

“Yeah,” Dave says behind him, maddeningly casual, “he won’t wake up. You didn’t, obviously, when I did it.”

And oh, that does something to him, thinking of it, imagining what he can’t remember, hands moving over his relaxed body, shifting him into position, breath on the back of his neck—no, that’s real, Dave’s come up behind him. He slides his hands up the backs of his thighs, feeling the touch echoed on his own skin, and Dave kisses his neck, whispers in his ear, “I might just do it again after you go back. Take a couple loops, maybe, run a train on sleeping Dave. Not like he’d mind.”

That makes him shudder. “Yeah, you like that,” the other Dave says, “not even knowing how many times you’ve been fucked,” and he does, he does—

He lubes his dick with a shaking hand and there’s no resistance when he sets the head against his hole and presses forward. He just sinks into himself until his hips are snug against his ass cheeks, and he holds himself there for a long gasping moment before starting to move, slow rocking thrusts that barely jostle his sleeping body, but oh, it feels so good.

Then again,” Dave says behind him, “I don’t actually have to wait for you to leave, do I?” Hands come to rest on his hips, grip hard, and pull him back, out of the gentle rhythm he’d settled into and onto his own hard dick. “Yeah,” Dave breathes, hot against his ear, “yeah, that’s good, that’s real fucking good, Dave, you take it so good—”

“Holy shit, Rose,” another Dave drawls behind them. “You’ve created a monster here, I hope you realize that. I’m never gonna get anything done ever again, it’ll just be a constant loop of fucking myself over and over and over again. The Dave on Dave pile just keeps getting taller until we’re all over the house and you can’t go anywhere without stumbling over another daisy chain of Daves. Can’t believe you didn’t see this coming.”

Rose smiles, and strokes sleeping Dave’s hair, and watches.

**Author's Note:**

> TG: the thing with time travel is  
TG: you cant overthink it  
TG: just roll with it and see what happens


End file.
